


Of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers

by Excuseyouclarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/M, Great Expectation AU, Minor Character Death, Pining, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29684637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excuseyouclarke/pseuds/Excuseyouclarke
Summary: Bellamy's life has been set out for him since he was born. A common labourer like everyone else in his village. Until one day he's invited to Satis House and meets the mysterious Miss Griffin, who sits in her dusty, grand house in her old wedding dress, and her daughter, Clarke - who's cutting remarks and quiet moments of softness draw him in and makes him wish for a better life.When a mysterious benefactor leaves him a large fortune, he's thrown into a world of high society, and while he thinks he may finally have a chance with Clarke, he's not the only one of high social standing that's after her hand.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	Of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers

Bellamy sits beside the crooked gravestones that he has begun to think of as friends. It’s been a long time since he had a friend, his life becoming more and more despairingly dull, the only thing to keep him on his toes is keeping away from the wrath of the Blacksmith's wife. As he scrapes the dirt and grime from the deeply engraved letters of his mother’s name, he wonders what it’s like down there, so far underground with insects crawling all over you, he wonders if you care about things like that when you’re dead. 

He supposes not—there’s probably not much to fret about when you’re dead. He envies them for that only. He’s halfway through cleaning his mother’s name when he hears the clinking and clanking on shackles. He knows the sound, the blacksmith makes them all the time, but still it takes him by surprise as does the hands on the back of his collar, pulling him to his feet. 

The man's face so close to him comes as a shock, as does the spitting anger that comes from his mouth. Though he knows the words are awful and vile, it takes him longer than usual to comprehend what he’s saying. He does know he’s talking about a friend of his, one that would cut him up and make sure no one found him if he were to see him. 

He shakes Bellamy down, rough hands on his shoulder, then patting down his pockets until he finds the apple that the Blacksmith gave him before he came out. 

“Where’s your mother?” The man demands, and from fear of being killed, he points to the grave where his mother’s laid to rest with no other explanation. With a start, the man takes a turn to leave, but Bellamy calls after him, “No, she’s there,” and points again to the grave. 

He understands this time, and finally looks down on him with dark eyes and nods, “who looks after you, boy?” He demands, there’s flecks of white in his dark hair, and though his words and actions seem cruel, there may be a spark of long forgotten kindness in his eyes. 

“The Blacksmith and his wife, sir” Bellamy replies quickly, not wanting to anger him.

“Blacksmith, you say?” The man's eyes narrow in deliberation, “You know what a file is, boy?”

Bellamy nods, he’s been well trained in the blacksmith's tools, he’ll be his apprentice one day and eventually, he’ll take over the trade. 

“Good,” The man barks, “you’ll get it for me and meet me back here before sunrise, don’t bring anyone with you or tell anyone what you’re doing, got it, boy?”

“Yes sir,” Bellamy jitters before the man pushes him away, Bellamy doesn’t need any more of an excuse to run back down the lanes that lead him to home, past the marshes and the lonely gallows that give him nightmares. 

He gets home out of breath and frightened, but he won’t dare say why to the Blacksmith or his wife. The blacksmith looks at him wide eyed when he slams through the door, Bellamy’s suddenly aware that he’s been out much longer than he was supposed to be, time had gotten away from him at the church yard and his unexpected visitor had thrown him.

“She’s out there looking for you,” the blacksmith warns wearily, he’s a kind man with a gentle soul and a cruel, cold and unforgiving wife. “She’s going to give you what you’re worth. Quick, get behind the door,” The blacksmith pulls him by the arm to hide him, but it’s too late, she’s here and there’s an all too familiar anger in her eyes. 

For what staying out late was worth, he gets a good whipping and a cuff around the ear. He wishes that this was not a regular occurrence, but unfortunately these days it is. It was never like this when his mother was still alive, she wouldn’t have punished him for staying out late.

But if she was still alive, he wouldn’t be staying out late to visit her. He sits next to the blacksmith at supper, his head down as she serves the cold meat and potatoes. 

Somewhere in the distance is a loud booming, he jumps in surprise, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard that noise before. “What was that?” Bellamy asks in astonishment, and briefly he thinks of the man at his mothers gravestone, but surely he couldn’t make that noise. 

“It’s the prison ship,” the Blacksmith's wife grumbles, pouring out the tea. 

“What’s that for?” he asks, and immediately regrets opening his mouth. 

“It’s heading to the new land, full of murders and forgerers and boys who ask too many questions. Close your mouth and eat your supper before I send you to bed with nothing,” is the curt reply from the Blacksmith's wife, and the blacksmith nods at him, silently telling him to do as he’s told.

After supper, Bellamy goes to bed with thoughts of what the next day will bring. He can barely sleep, everytime he thinks he might get a moment's peace the man's face floats behind his eyelids, with promises of his friend coming to find Bellamy, of chopping him up and feeding him to the pigs. Well before sunrise and before anyone in the house is awake, he sneaks out of his bed and slips a bottle of brandy into a sack. In the pantry is a porkpie, large enough to feed them for supper two nights over. Bellamy knows that it must be saved for something, but then he thinks of the shackled man, and he slips that into the sack too. In the forge, he takes a file and hopes no one notices the missing things.

He runs as fast as his legs will carry him, he’s short but he’s fast enough in the miserable misty morning on the marshes. He doesn’t look at the lonely gallows as he rushes past, he’s sure he’ll see them in his nightmares tonight. 

_Thief,_ the voice in his head abolashes. _You’re a thief._

In the dim morning light, the sun on the horizon just a misty haze he sees a figure before he can get to the church, slumped over on a rock tugging at the chains that bind his ankles. What a cruel fate that must be, to be bound from running and escaping. Though Bellamy thinks escaping is exactly what he’s just done. 

If he were to be put on a boat for a frightening new world, Bellamy thinks he might escape, too. “Sir,” Bellamy pants, trying to catch his breath. The man turns, but it’s not the man from the day before. There’s no spark of recognition in the man's eyes, only fear and contempt. There’s a scar running down his cheek, it looks fresh and sore, but before Bellamy can think anymore of it, he turns and runs from him, chains rattling loudly and Bellamy runs away too, towards the church as he realises that must be the man's friend, the one who likes cutting up boys and feeding them to the pigs. 

Finally he finds the man from the day before, Bellamy’s unsure whether he’s relieved or not, but he’s here now, so Bellamy thinks this was meant to be. 

“You didn’t bring anyone with you, did you boy?” The man demands, his teeth are yellowing and his fingernails are cakes with dirt. He wonders what’s waiting for a criminal in this new world. “No one followed you?”

“No, sir” Bellamy confirms, “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Good,” the man grunts, looking him over. Bellamy’s got his bag ready for him, he passes the pork pie and the man takes it and turns away from him, scoffing it down in an almost feral way. Bellamy thinks about what the Blacksmith's wife said, they’re convicts, they’re set for the new world because they can’t be trusted here. But Bellamy doesn’t think that necessarily makes them awful people, after all, Bellamy stole the pork pie and the brandy, but he’s not sure that means he should be sent far away.

He passes the Brandy to the man, he doesn’t want to see him starved, no matter what he’s done, he doesn’t want to see anyone starved. His mother taught him to be a good person, and the Blacksmith is always kind to everyone, no matter who they are. That’s who he wants to be like, not the Blacksmith's wife who only cares about her pride.

The convict takes the brandy with a thankful nod, the pork pie’s almost finished, Bellamy notices with some confusion. “Aren’t you going to save any for your friend?”

“Friend?” The convict half laughs, he looks over at him with mocking eyes, “Oh, my friend’s not hungry, I assure you of that.”

Bellamy frowns, maybe he thinks his friend’s already eaten. “He sure looked hungry.”

The convict freezes, Bellamy can see his features contort in confusion. “Looked? When did you see him?”

Bellamy points back over the marshes, through the thick fog towards the lonely gallows. “Over there, he had the shackles on his ankle too.”

The convict looks over to where he’s pointing, the other mans long gone though, Bellamy didn’t mean to scare him away, that wasn’t his intention—he can’t scare a fly, let alone a fully grown man.

“What did he look like, boy?” The convict demands, Bellamy thinks he almost looks fearful, surely he’s not scared of his own friend?

“He’s like you, with the shackles and—” he gestures to the clothes he’s wearing, the grey, drab clothes. “He’s got a scar down his face, down his cheek.”

“That’s no friend of mine,” the convict spits, “the file, boy.”

Bellamy passes him the file from the bag, he takes it from him and frantically files the shackles with dirty, calloused hands. One day, his hands will probably look like that too, it’s the bane of being a workman. Bellamy shifts uncomfortably, looking towards the horizon where the sun is slowly making its way towards the sky.

“If you don’t mind, sir—I need to get going, if the blacksmith's wife finds me gone, she’ll beat me black and blue, I’ve already been gone for too long.”

The convict looks up towards him, as if he had forgotten he was there. Bellamy’s good at that, blending in unintentionally. “Yes go, you’ve been a great help my boy, a great help.”

Bellamy nods, but the convicts gone back to filing his shackles. So he runs as fast as his legs will take him, tired from not sleeping, but there’s a buzz going through him regardless, something he’s never felt before.

He climbs through his bedroom window and back into bed before the Blacksmith's wife comes to wake him up to get started on his chores.

He thinks of the convict all that day, wonders if he ever got away from what he was running from, but knowing he’ll never get the answers he’s looking for, he focuses on cleaning the house. They have visitors that evening, so the house has to be spotless.

The people that come around to the house are family in nothing but name, they bear no real relation to him, but the Blacksmith's wife insists he calls them Uncles and Aunts. Bellamy thinks they’re pompous, they speak too proper, nobody from around here speaks like that, and they always dress up when they come here. But when the Blacksmith takes him into town, they work normal, hardworking jobs like the rest of the town. There’s nothing particularly posh or special about them, they just like to pretend. 

Bellamy has never understood that, why people pretend to be something they’re not? Surely when they end up in the ground, what they wear or how they speak won’t matter anymore, it’s their actions that will be remembered.

The Blacksmith’s wife’s telling them about how ungrateful he is, Bellamy never really understood it, he doesn’t think he’s ever been ungrateful, when he asks the Blacksmith, he tells him not to worry, it’s just how she is and not to say anything for fear of getting a clip round the ear. 

He stays quiet during supper, just like he always is when they have guests. It’s what he’s been taught, that children should be seen and not heard - so that’s exactly what he does. He sits and listens to the grown-ups pretending to be someone they’re not, all while the Blacksmith smiles knowingly at him - he finds this amusing too, them all pretending to be well above their means. 

“We have a special treat for after supper,” the Blacksmiths wife announces as they’re finishing up their plates. She throws the Blacksmith a glare, telling him to clear the table already. “A pork pie, made it fresh yesterday just for the occasion.”

Bellamy sinks down in his chair, he’d been short-sighted this morning, not thinking about what the pork pie would be for, or how he was going to explain that it was gone. He can hear her in the pantry, looking around for it but Bellamy knows it futile, it’s not in there, and she’s going to want an explanation. 

“You—” she spits, pointing a worn, crooked finger at him, “what’ve you done with it? It was there when I went to bed.”

He’s about to run, where he doesn’t know, he’ll only get a beating when he comes home, and there’s no point even thinking about not coming home, she’ll find him and then he’ll get twice the beating. He’s saved by a banging on the door, it’s dark out, and he can’t imagine who would be here at this time.

Briefly, he thinks about the convict, he knows where he lives, or at least that he lives with the Blacksmith. Maybe he came back to get him, maybe it’s his friend, the one who would kill him, come to find him, or the man with the scar - the one that the convict seemed scared of. 

The Blacksmith's wife throws the door open, she’s probably had a lot to say before she saw the uniforms of the kings guards, barging in past her and looking to the Blacksmith. 

“What do you want?” The blacksmith's wife demands, standing in their way, stopping them from going any further into the house. Bellamy thinks about the convict again, if he told the guards that he helped him and now they’ve come to take him away on the boats. 

“A job in the name of the King for the blacksmith,” the guard tells her bluntly, looking past her. The blacksmith stands with a frown, nodding at them. The guard holds out shackles like the ones the convict was wearing, it could be them if he managed to get them off with the file. “These need fixing, quickly as you can.”

The Blacksmith takes Bellamy through to the workhouse with him, not leaving him alone with his wife and the rest of the awful people. Besides, one day this would be his job, he’ll be the one doing these jobs, it’s better that he learns early. 

It’s not a long job, Bellamy can’t help but feel guilty for giving the blacksmith another job to do—he’s lost count of the things he feels guilty for. 

The guards tell them that there’s a convict on the loose somewhere around the moors, they could use all the help they can get. Bellamy has to go with the Blacksmith, but he knows he doesn’t want to be doing this, either. 

“I hope they don’t find them,” Bellamy whispers, the nights dark and they only have a few torches to guide their way. 

“Me too,” The Blacksmith confesses quietly. He’s not a man of violence, he never has been. He’s a kind and gentle soul. The opposite of his wife. They follow the directions of the kings guards, not really sure where they’re supposed to be looking. Bellamy’s only seen him twice, both times were at his mother’s graves, and he doubts they’re still there. 

There’s a shout then, loud and angry, and Bellamy knows straight away who it is. They follow the king's guards down into the marshes, in the dark they can see two figures fighting, Bellamy thinks it might be the man with the scar, but without much light he can’t quite tell. The guards pull them apart, announcing that they’re heading to the ships, running away only made their punishment worse for them.

Bellamy clings to the Blacksmiths legs, watching as the convict from this morning is put back into shackles and led towards the boats. The man with the scars still putting up a fight, there’s something about him that frightens Bellamy, he can’t figure out why, though.

“Wait,” the convict shouts, planting his feet firmly into the ground. He looks towards Bellamy and the Blacksmith, he can’t quite tell what the look in his eyes is, but he’s suddenly overcome with a deep fear that he’s about to be found out, that the convicts one last act will be to tell the Blacksmith and the kinds guards what he did this morning, that he’s a thief.

He’s petrified that they’re going to put him on the boat too, send him far away where he won’t be able to sit at his mothers grave anymore or go to school. He’d never see the blacksmith again or get to play in the marshes.

“What is it?” The king’s guard demands, “there’s no getting out of this.”

The convict pays them no attention, looking to the Blacksmith, Bellamy knows it’s all over now. “Are you the Blacksmith?”

“I am,” the Blacksmith confirms, confused. Bellamy holds onto him a little tighter from fear, surely he wouldn’t let him be put on the ship and be sent far away.

“I have a confession, I snuck into your forgery and stole a file, to get the shackles off you see. I also stole a pork pie and some Brandy. I’m sorry, I was hungry and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Were those things missing?” The king's guard demands of the Blacksmith. Bellamy’s trying his hardest not to show how relieved he is. He was sure to have a beating when he got home if he were found out.

“They were,” the Blacksmith confirms, then looks to the Convict. “We can forgive you that, we can do without a pork pie and some brandy. I don’t know what you’ve done or why you’re being sent away, but we wouldn’t see anyone go hungry, no matter what they’ve done.”

The convict nods gratefully, then he’s dragged away, and Bellamy supposes that’s the last time he’s ever going to see him again. 

*

Bellamy thinks a lot about the convict the following months, everytime he goes to visit his mothers grave, he thinks of him. Everything a gust of wind makes him jump, he wonders if that’s him, come back for him. 

But why would he possibly ever come back for Bellamy? He kept his secret, just as the Convict kept his. 

Slowly, he thinks of him less and less, until he’s just a fleeting thought, almost a figment of his imagination. Although the time with the convict feels like it lasted forever, he comes to realise that it was a day at most, and Bellamy really was but a drop in the ocean in the convicts life, he probably doesn’t think of him like Bellamy does. 

It’s a year after when Bellamy rarely thinks of him anymore that the letter comes. The Blacksmith’s wife is standing with one of his so-called uncles in the kitchen, practically quivering with excitement. 

“Miss Griffin’s invited you to play at Satis house,” she tells him, Bellamy’s not really sure what that means, he’s heard of Miss Griffin, and he’s pretty sure that he’s the last person she would want around her house. 

“Isn’t she—” Bellamy starts, only to be cut off by the Blacksmith’s wife.

“What?” 

“Mad?” Bellamy bites his lip, he doesn’t actually know her, just what children from the school tell him. None of them things are very nice, so Bellamy has to wonder exactly what Miss Griffin would want with him. 

“It doesn’t matter whether she’s mad or not, that woman can make your fortune so you’re going. Go get washed and dressed in something that doesn’t look like rags.” She gives him a shove towards the water pump in the front garden. With a well disguised grumble, he takes off his shirt and washes under the freezing water. 

He dresses in his finest clothes—which admittedly aren’t all that fine, but it’s the best they’ve got. He’s put on a horse and cart by the Blacksmith’s wife with a warning to be good—or else, and he’s sent on his way. 

His not-uncle talks to him as he goes, Jaspers always been a talker, but he never mentions anything about Miss Griffin, and Bellamy doesn’t want to bring it up. The road out there is long, further than he’s been in a long time. It’s much further than the church that he goes to to see his mother.

“See the time?” His not-uncle asks him, handing him a pocket watch. 

“Three-fifteen, sir” Bellamy nods, he’s learnt time at school and with the Blacksmith.

“Precisely,” he confirms, “not a minute early nor a minute late, a gentleman is always on time.”

“Yes sir,” Bellamy nods, hopping from the carriage to the gates. The house is huge, the biggest he’s ever seen, but it also makes him a little sad, it looks like it hasn’t been loved in years, the gardens overgrown and the walls are crumbling. The gates they stand at are rusting with dying vines wrapped around them. 

A girl comes out of the house then, maybe the same age as him, but more beautiful than anyone he’s ever seen before. She’s not like the other girls in his class at school, she’s not wearing a drab, ragged dress, and her hair isn’t crudely pulled into a ponytail. Instead, she wears a dress that probably costs more than he’ll ever make as a Blacksmith. It shames him more than he cares to admit. 

“Who are you?” She demands, looking over them in what Bellamy can only describe as disgust, as if their very presence is hindering her. 

“Bellamy Blake,” his not-uncle announces, “come at the request of Miss Griffin.”

The girl looks over him and sighs, opening the gates and gesturing for him to come through. 

“And if Miss Griffin would like to see me—” his not-uncle starts, but the girl cuts him off with a scoff. 

“She doesn’t,” she walks ahead of him, leaving Bellamy to catch up. The floor outside is cracked, weeds growing up through them and plants overgrown every way he looks. He wonders how a house so grand and beautiful could ever get to this state? Above him, on a glorious, imposing tower the clock is stuck at 09:20. He knows it’s not right because he just saw the time in the carriage. 

“The clock,” he points out, “it’s stuck.”

The girl turns and gives him a look that’s sure to turn him to stone. “Stop loitering, boy. You don’t want to keep Miss Griffin waiting.”

Bellamy nods and scurries after her, the Blacksmith’s wife’s voice in head telling him that this is the chance of a lifetime, and he shouldn’t waste it. She could make his fortune, and if he ever wants to get out of this life then he’ll be on his best behaviour. 

If he thought the house on the outside was bad, then he had no idea what to expect from the inside. It’s dusty and dark, every single curtain closed, no daylight getting in. There’s cobwebs everywhere, hanging off the chandelier and the bannisters on the staircase. If he’s being honest with himself, the place scares him a little, and he’d rather like to leave, if it wasn’t for the beautiful girl scowling at him.

“I said stop loitering,” she snaps, turning on her heel to march up the stairs. He follows somewhat reluctantly, a part of him not wanting to look, another, rather sadistic side wanting to take everything in - to see the horrors of the old abandoned house, creaking with ghosts.

They stop outside of a door, thick wood carved beautifully, it’s like nothing he’s ever seen before. 

“Go on,” the girl snaps, “she’s waiting for.” With that, she turns from him and marches back down the hallway, to where he’s not quite sure. 

With a nervous flutter in his belly, he opens the heavy door with a creak and steps inside. Like the rest of the house, it was probably once quite grand and beautiful, but now it makes him sad at the neglected state it’s been left in. The long curtains are covered with a thick layer of dust, just like the rest of the house it’s dark, the only light coming from the crack in the curtains and the fire burning in the marble fireplace. 

For all the times he's been told that Miss Griffin is mad, he’s never quite sure what he expected. He certainly didn’t expect a woman with greying hair to be sat in a fading wedding dress, with dark eyes that dance in the flames. He swallows hard, trying his hardest not to stare. 

“Come in boy,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She looks over him, not critically or hashly like he expected, but there’s something else in her eyes that he can’t quite work out. “You’re Mrs Blake's boy, aren’t you?”

He nods jerkily, trying to stop the tears that spring to his eyes at the mention of his mother. “Yes Miss.”

She smiles again, there’s something somewhat unnerving about her smile. It never seems genuine, it’s forced and thin, but also a little calculating. “I knew your mother, a long time ago. She made this very wedding dress, a very talented woman.”

“Yes miss,” he agrees again, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to. 

She gives him a critical look, standing from her arm chair, tall and noble. “What’s the matter boy? You’re not scared of a woman who hasn’t seen the sun long before you were born, are you?”

Bellamy shakes his head no, but the words die in his throat, because in all honesty he is a little scared of her. She places a hand over her heart, her skin dry and cracking, her fingers skinny and spindly. 

“My heart was broken, a long time ago. By a _man,”_ she spits the last word like it’s a profanity, the ones the Blacksmith usually mutters under his breath when he thinks Bellamy can’t hear him. “I’ve been in this house ever since. Sometimes i get sick notions, and I’d quite like to see a child play, so go on, play.”

Bellamy looks around, there’s nothing to play, though. No games or cards or anything. He’s unsure of what she wants from him. There’s a dressing table next to her, filled with expensive, dusty jewelry and a bible that hasn’t been touched in a long time. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” he starts, “but I’m not quite sure what you’d like me to play.”

She sighs and shakes her head a little sadly. “Clarke,” she calls, and in walks the beautiful girl from earlier. She walks to Miss Griffin with a smile and stands in front of her expectantly. Miss Griffin takes a necklace from the draw, it’s large and heavy looking, the jewels on it drip down her neck on threads of gold. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” Miss Griffin murmurs. 

“Yes,” Bellamy agrees quickly, “quite.”

Clarke turns to him with a self-satisfied smile, he imagines she’s been told that hundreds of times in her life, and she’ll be told many, many more times. 

“Play with him, my darling,” instructs Miss Griffin, Clarke turns once again, this time in horror. 

“With _him?”_ Clarke demands in revulsion. “He’s a labouring boy, look at his shoes, they’re covered in mud and god knows what else, you can’t possibly expect me to play with him.”

Miss Griffin simply strokes her cheek and whispers something in her ear that Bellamy can’t hear. With a sigh, Clarke asks him, “what cards do you play?”

Bellamy twists his hands uncomfortably, she’s got a mean stare and twisted mouth. “Only beg of my neighbour.”

Clarke scoffs, but takes a pack of cards from the draw and sits on the floor. Bellamy follows, tucking his dirty shoes under him, suddenly thoroughly ashamed of his common upbringing. She criticizes everything he does, his hands—even after washing them are dirty and calloused, the blacksmith told him it’s a working man's cross to bear. She scoffs at his ability to play cards, at the way he stammers and blushes around her. 

“I’d rather like to go home now,” he announces quietly, barely trusting his voice. 

“Oh,” Miss Griffin blinks in surprise, “but it seems as though you’ve only just begun.”

Perhaps for her that’s how it felt, because she isn’t the one being criticized and mocked. Clarke takes every opportunity to say mean things to him and now he’s had enough. With a sigh, Miss Griffin motions for him to come to her. He stands and lets the blood rush back to his feet, leaving them tingling as he walks over to her. 

“What do you think of her, of Clarke?” Miss Griffin asks quietly. Clarke’s still sat on the floor, clearing away the cards. She’s not looking at him, but he knows she’s listening. 

“I think she’s very pretty,” Bellamy tells her carefully, face reddening. 

“Yes,” Miss Griffin agrees, “go on.”

“But she’s very proud, and very insulting. I think I’d quite like to go home now.”

“But do you want to see her again?” Miss Griffin asks enthusiastically. 

Bellamy thinks about it for a moment, for all the insults thrown his way, there’s still something about Clarke that he quite likes, her enticing beauty and her bright blue eyes—the bluest he’s ever seen. 

“I think I’d quite like that,” he agrees quietly, “but right now I’d like to go home.”

“No,” Miss Griffin tells him decisively, “play the game. Your Uncle won’t be here for another hour.”

Bellamy tries his hardest to stop his lip from quivering, but nods and sits back down opposite Clarke. They play in relative silence until finally, Clarke tells him he can go. He’s never stood up so fast in his life, he’s also never been so ready to leave a place. 

Clarke rolls her eyes but stands with him, leading the way out to the gates again. His eyes burn when he gets back out into the sunlight, he’d slowly adjusted to the darkness of the house and now the sun seems entirely too bright. He wonders how Clarke doesn’t wince whenever she comes out into the sunlight, or if she’s used to it now. How awful it must be, to be stuck in the dark like that all day. 

His not-uncle’s just coming down the road with his horse now, and finally Bellamy can sigh in relief. A tear slips down his cheek, he’s never felt quite so fraught in all his life. 

“Are you crying?” Clarke demands in a mocking tone. It’s all a bit too much for Bellamy right now, he’s never met alone as mean or as beautiful as her. 

“No,” he lies, trying his hardest to keep the quiver out of his voice. He runs towards the carriage before Clarke can see anymore of his tears and he’s grateful to be sat listening to Jasper’s mindless chatter. 

*

That night in bed, he keeps thinking about Clarke and Miss Griffin, and what they’d think of his tiny house in the moors, there’s no grand staircase or chandeliers, no real garden to speak of, just the forge at the back of the house where the Blacksmith works. 

They’d be horrified by it, and Bellamy’s ashamed for the first time of their lifestyle. He never felt that way when his mother was here, but then, he was always surrounded by love and laughter, here he’s always scared of the Blacksmith's wife. 

The following week, he goes back at their request, this time he walks there. It’s quite a walk, but Bellamy doesn’t mind it. He actually quite enjoys it. It’s further away from the church where he sees his mother, and it’s nice to see the houses getting bigger and more beautiful. He’d be a fool to think that one day he could get a house like that as a Blacksmith, and the Blacksmith’s wife has always told him there’s no point in dreaming, it only breaks your heart. 

But still, he can’t help but daydream a little about it. Perhaps not one quite as big at Miss Griffins, but something bigger than the one he’s got. One he could decorate properly, not just the plain, dull brown that’s in the Blacksmith’s house now. There would be colour and happiness, never any sadness. 

It’s a pretty dream indeed. 

Clarke’s waiting in the garden for him when he gets there, picking petals off of daisy’s and letting them fall to the floor. She doesn’t look up when she sees him, but he knows from the smirk on her face that she knows he’s there. 

“Good morning, Miss Griffin,” he says quietly, but still she doesn’t look up. He supposes this is a game she’s playing with him, ignoring him until he leaves. Expect he’s not going to leave, he’s been asked here, and he doesn’t feel like doing that long walk again just yet. 

Suddenly, Clarke stands and walks towards the house. She still hasn’t said anything to him, but he assumes he’s supposed to be following. When they get in the house though, there’s people sat around on the dusty old furniture, staring at him in wide eyed shock.

“These are Miss Griffin's relations,” Clarke announces loudly in a bored tone, “they come around every year, Miss Griffin calls them the Vultures.”

There’s a ripple of offense from them as Clarke continues through the house. She doesn’t take any notice of them, just keeps her head high.

 _“That’s the labouring boy,”_ one of them whispers when they think he’s out of earshot, Bellamy feels his face flushing, Clarke still doesn’t pay any attention to then, but Bellamy

When they get to the staircase, Clarke stops and turns to him, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Do you think I’m pretty?” She demands suddenly, looking over his clothes. He cleaned his shoes today, and the Blacksmith's wife put him in his best church clothes again, he hopes he looks acceptable. 

“Yes,” Bellamy tells her, because he’s not sure he could possibly lie when she’s staring right at him. He was always told he’s an awful liar. 

“Do you think I’m insulting?”

Bellamy swallows hard, once again, he can’t lie when she’s staring right at him. “Not so much today.”

He doesn’t see the hand coming towards his face, rather feel the sting and the burn afterwards. 

“What about now?” She demands. Bellamy brings his hand to his face, it wasn’t a particularly hard slap, he’s had worse from the Blacksmith’s wife, but it doesn’t make it any better. “Are you going to cry again?”

“You’re mean,” he tells her, as if it were some great insult, she looks much too satisfied with this result for it to have affected her in any way. “And I’ll never cry for you again.”

Clarke shrugs, uninterested in whether or not he cries over her. Instead of leading him upstairs like he thought, she takes him further into the house, into a dining room with a long, what would have once been a beautifully decorated table. Like the rest of the house, it’s covered in dust and cobwebs. The cutlery on the table looks like it’s never been used, the lace tablecloth is yellowing and fraying around the edges. In the middle of the table, is the largest, most beautifully decorated cake he’s ever seen. There’s a mouse climbing over it, he realises in horror, nibbling away at it as if it were nothing but leftover crumbs.

“Do you know what that is?” Miss Griffin's voice makes him jump, he’d been that engrossed in the table spread and the mouldy old cake that he hadn’t even noticed her. 

“It’s a cake, miss.”

Miss Griffin laughs, not unkind, just a little sad. “It’s a wedding cake—my wedding cake. On this day of the year, long before you were born, it was brought here for my wedding. Now we waste away together, rats gnawing away at our souls. One day, there will be nothing left.”

It makes Bellamy unbelievably sad, he can’t imagine what kind of horrors would make someone feel like that, how you become such a shell of a person to leave a room untouched for so many years. She must have loved whoever she was supposed to marry very much, to keep everything how it was, even keeping on her old wedding dress. What must a love like that feel like? To be completely and utterly devoted to someone that you’d stop time for them. He may want to feel a love like that, but he would never want the heartbreak that would follow it. He’s had enough heartbreak when his mother died and he had to go live with the Blacksmith and his wife. 

The people from earlier burst into the room then, fussing over Miss Griffin like she’s someone of great importance. Perhaps to them she is. “Bellamy, these are my relations. They’re all very concerned about my health, I couldn’t even begin to imagine why.”

“You look so good,” one of them gushes, striding over to hug her. Miss Griffin doesn’t react, she doesn’t even return the hug, which Bellamy thinks is odd. He hasn’t been hugged in a long time. Perhaps she doesn’t return it because she knows what they’re saying is a lie. She doesn’t look good, she’s like skin and bone, she looks like she’s wasting away to nothing.

The people give him a funny look, and Bellamy knows how they must judge him, how they scoff and turn their noses up at him. 

“What a funny little name,” one of them sniffs, looking at him like one would at mud on their shoes. “ _Bellamy_.”

He blushes furiously, he’s never quite liked his name, people can never really get their tongues around, call him funny things instead and laugh at him. 

“That’s quite enough,” Miss Griffin announces, “Bellamy, why don’t you go and play outside for a bit, I’m sure Clarke will be with you shortly.”

Bellamy nods and walks out, grateful to be away from them and into the daylight again. His eyes always go a little funny when he walks out of the house, the sun seems too bright and too close, it takes a little while to adjust again. 

He takes the opportunity to explore the gardens, the wild, overgrowing plants that fascinate him, he wonders what it looked like before it began to decay, when it was loved and not left to waste away. He imagines it was a sight to behold, a wonder that people would travel all over to see. Perhaps one day it may come to its former glory, but for now, it’s crumbling and a little sad. 

From nowhere he could see, a boy jumps out at him. His own age, skinny and pasty much like him. He’s got a sharp face though, and cold blue eyes. Not like Clarkes, these seem almost too light, like they’re void of any warmth. 

“Put ‘em up,” the boy challenges, raising his fists and rocking back and forth. Bellamy thinks he’s watched one too many of the street fights that happen in town. The Blacksmith sometimes lets him watch, Bellamy never really understood the appeal of them, of the needless violence but this boy seems to have enjoyed it far too much.

With a sigh, Bellamy raises his fists too. But the boy is much too slow with his hands, Bellamy easily dodges any hits coming his way—it’s not like Clarke earlier where he didn’t see it coming. He has to wonder what the point of this is, if they’re truly looking for a fight, but Bellamy’s happy to play along, if not for his own entertainment. 

The boy really isn’t a good fighter, Bellamy gets a hit and the boy immediately recoils, wiping blood from his nose. Briefly, Bellamy feels guilty, but then the other boy did start it, he said he wanted a fight so Bellamy’s giving him a fight. Even if it is just so he’ll leave him alone. 

“Good shot,” the boy nods, cracking his knuckles. “Good shot indeed. But can you do it a second time?”

Bellamy sighs, he really is over this now, he didn’t come out here looking for a fight. Bellamy gets another good shot at the boy's nose and he recoils, wiping the blood on his arm. Bellamy hopes he’s going to give up now, accept that he’s not a very good fighter and that he’s going to lose. 

Luckily he does, with tears in his eyes he congratulates him on his win and runs away. Bellamy thinks he’s a curious creature, but it’s just another strange thing about a strange place.

He jumps when he hears Clarke behind him, looking over him inquisitively. “Miss Griffin said you can go,” she tells him slowly, there’s none of the usually bitterness or meanness in her tone this time, but perhaps something close on admiration. “Her relatives don’t seem to want to go anywhere, so there’s no point you hanging around.”

“Oh,” Bellamy says, almost disappointed. “Okay.”

Clarke walks him to the gates, but stops him from opening it. “Why were you fighting with that boy?”

Bellamy blinks, do they think Bellamy was starting fights? He’s worried that they’re not going to ask him back, and he won’t be able to see Clarke and Miss Griffin again. The Blacksmith's wife would beat him and he’d be left with no chance of a fortune.

“I didn’t start it,” he tries to assure her, “he came to me and started fighting. I wouldn’t have done anything but he kept hitting me. I’m sorry.”

Clarke smiles then, brilliant and beautiful and blinding. Bellamy’s never seen a sight quite like it. “You may kiss me,” Clarke tells him, and for a moment, he thinks he might have misheard, but she’s looking at him expectantly, so he takes the opportunity before she changes her mind. 

Her skins soft and smooth, for the brief moment he was touching it. He hopes he isn’t blushing too much. Clarke lets go of the gates then, watching him in amusement as he runs off. 

His weekly visits don’t stop, every Saturday morning he goes to Satis House, and each time brings new experiences and more of a love for Clarke. She teaches him different card games, says Beg Of My Neighbour is much too common for them to be playing, so they play other things instead. 

Clarke softens over the weeks, they talk more when Miss Griffin’s not around. When she is—Clarke’s mean and cold, and Bellamy wonders why that is, but he never comments on it. When Miss Griffin’s around, they’re only allowed to play cards, but when she’s not, they play pick up sticks and Jacks in the garden. 

Very occasionally, when they’re sure Miss Griffin isn’t going to come and see them, she gets board games out of a cupboard, but Clarke tells him that he must never tell Miss Griffin what they’re doing. He likes those days the best, they smile more, and talk freely. On those days he thinks Clarke might like him too. 

Then, the Blacksmith's wife falls ill, and their tiny house is filled with relatives and doctors, all giving him a painfully sympathetic look and stroking his head like he’s a stray dog. 

_“What a shame,”_ someone sighs when they think he’s out of earshot. _“Poor boys lost two mothers now, whatever will he do without a woman in his life?”_

Bellamy hates that thought—that anyone would ever think that the Blacksmith's wife was ever a mother to him. She took him in because she was told she had to, he overheard his mothers Lawyer from London tell her that she gets a sum of money for taking him in. The Blacksmith’s wife never loved him and nor would she ever. He was an inconvenience to her, and she was nothing more than a bad dream to forget to him. 

He couldn’t even bear to say her name, she was nothing more than the Blacksmith’s wife, and perhaps he should feel guilty about that, but he doesn’t.

She’s laid to rest a week later. On the marshes where his mother is. He wears black and so does everybody else. Nobody cries though, like they did at his mothers funeral. Bellamy wonders what people will do at his funeral, will he be loved and missed? Or will they stand stoic, only there because they feel like they should be, not because they want to say goodbye. 

Everybody goes back to their house after, and Bellamy sits in the corner, trying to hide from feelings while all the grown ups shower him with false sympathy. They don’t leave until it’s dark outside, and Bellamy knows he’s up way past his bedtime, but right now there’s no one around to care.

The Blacksmith’s sitting in the old armchair when Bellamy goes to the living room. He’s got a bottle of Brandy, staring hard into the fire. Bellamy tries his hardest not to make a sound, but it doesn’t work, because he looks up to where Bellamy’s standing in the doorway.

With a kind, sad smile, he holds his arm out, gesturing for Bellamy to come to him. He envelopes him in a hug, and Bellamy holds on tight—as tight as he possibly can and for a moment, just lets himself be in the moment.

“I don’t miss her,” Bellamy murmurs quietly. He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to say at that time, but it’s what he says anyway. 

“I don’t miss her either,” the Blacksmith whispers back, his voice laced with the same guilt that Bellamy feels. “It’s just you and me now, boy.”

The Blacksmith lets him have a few days off school, and he doesn’t work either. Instead, Bellamy shows him the games he plays at Satis House, he teaches him Bread and Honey, and Old Maid. For the first time, he feels like this house is a home, and he feels like he may actually have a life here. 

When he goes to Miss Griffin’s that week, Clarke’s waiting at the gates for him, sat on the concrete steps picking petals off a daisy. She looks up at his approach and opens the gate, throwing her arms and his neck. He freezes for a moment, his mind not quite comprehending what’s happening. When he does catch up, he hugs her back, holding on as tight as possible. Since his mother died he hadn’t been hugged once, now he’s slowly rekindling the warmth in his chest that had died with his mother.

“I didn’t know if you’d come this week,” she whispers, still holding onto him. “Miss Griffin said—”

“Of course I was still coming,” he frowns, and a pang of guilt hits him, he still doesn’t feel sad about the Blacksmith’s wife dying. He didn’t even think about not coming while the family was supposed to be in mourning. He stayed home from school and had the best time he’s had in a long time. 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke steps back, fixing her dress. She can’t be seen to be improper, after all. 

“Thank you,” Bellamy tries his hardest to look somber, he knows what is expected of him, and he knows that he’s supposed to at least pretend to be sad, that's what the Blacksmith told him, anyway. 

“Come on,” Clarke takes his hand, pulling him into the house. He’s almost disappointed, because as much as he enjoys his time with Miss Griffin, Clarke’s so much nicer when she’s not around. 

Miss Griffin is always nice to him, but she’s especially nice today. She gives him cake and even though he and Clarke have to play cards, Clarke’s not as mean to him this time. He knows this won’t last forever, but he can enjoy it while it lasts. 

*

Harper comes shortly after the Blacksmith’s wife’s death, she’s renting out their spare room, and Bellamy can say with some confidence that he’s never been happier. She teaches the little kids at the school after their teacher got sick with the same thing the Blacksmith's wife had. Life’s funny like that. 

Harper is kind and sweet, she helps him with his reading and his writing, and always gives him extra portions if there’s any left over. 

“You’re a growing boy,” she tells him one day with a sly wink, “and growing boys need plenty of food.”

He stops thinking of the Blacksmith as just _the Blacksmith_ , he’s family to him, and when one day he accidentally calls him Monty instead of sir, he just smiles and answers his question. 

Bellamy’s never had a Dad, he was killed when Bellamy was still a baby, and that’s the way it’s always been. Cautiously, he begins to think of Monty as a Dad, he’s not quite sure what it entails, but Monty’s like a friend, but not like the friends he has at school. He keeps him fed, and keeps a roof over his head, but he loves him too, and he plays with him and tries to help him with his school work as much as possible. 

Harpers better at helping him with his school work though, she sits at the table with him after supper and reads his letters and listens to him read out loud. 

“Miss Harper,” he says cautiously, “How would I become a gentleman?”

Harper blinks in surprise, sitting back in her chair, “why on earth would you want to become that? You’re perfect as you are.”

Bellamy chews on his lip, he’s almost embarrassed to tell her the real reason he wants to become a gentleman, but she guesses soon enough. 

“Is this because of a certain girl you see on a weekend?”

“Yes,” he confesses quietly, “I want to become a gentleman for her. She’d never marry anyone as coarse and common as me, she’s going to marry a gentleman who has a big house and lots of money.”

“Bellamy,” Harper sighs, “you are perfect, and if Clarke Griffin doesn’t want you just because you don’t have a big house of money then she's worthy of you.”

Bellamy doesn't argue, just folds his arms on the table and drops his head. Harper doesn’t understand, it’s him who’s not worthy of Clarke. He knows that she deserves all the pretty things that he can’t give her, but at school, the teachers just tell them that they’ll always be labourers, and there’s no point in dreaming something else. It’s what the Blacksmith’s wife used to say too, but Bellamy can’t shake the feeling that he wants something more than this little life he’s in.

*

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months and before Bellamy knows it, the weeks have turned into years and on the last saturday before his fourteenth birthday, he tells Miss Griffin and Clarke that this is the last time he’s allowed to come and play. 

“Of course,” Miss Griffin smiles knowingly. Clarke stands somber by her side though, not looking at him and not saying a word. “You start your apprenticeship with the Blacksmith. You should be excited about it, it’s the first step to becoming a man.”

Bellamy looks to Clarke, she’s still staring at the dusty old carpet. “I am excited, Miss Griffin. But I will miss my time here.”

“I’m sure you will, and we’re sorry to have to say goodbye to you, aren’t we, Clarke?”

Clarke nods, but still doesn't look at him. 

“I’ll still come on my next birthday,” Bellamy assures them, “to come and see you. But Monty said I have to say goodbye for now.”

“You’ll have to say goodbye to Clarke, too,” there’s a strange smile of Miss Griffin’s face, it’s something close to pride, but he’s not quite sure. It may be something more than that, something a little cold and calculated. “She’s going to Paris tomorrow, to begin her training as a lady.”

Clarke looks up then, he expects her to be elated, overjoyed by the prospect of going to a brand new world and getting brand new experiences, she was going to become a proper lady, while he’s training to be a Blacksmith, a common labourer who’s going to lead a common, dull and boring life. 

But Clarke looks bleak behind Miss Griffin’s back, and Bellamy has to wonder if this is the life she wants, or the one she’s been forced into. Does she understand her luck? Does she understand that she’ll never want for anything, while he’ll work all of his life just to put food on the table. 

His dream of ever becoming a gentleman is crashing around him, and it was a silly dream, a frivolous ideal that would never become reality, no matter how hard he tries. 

“I’ll be sorry to see you go,” Bellamy murmurs, there’s a lump of sadness in his throat, constricting him from saying too much. He’s not sure what he would say, that he thinks he might love her—he’s not sure he knows what love is, but the warmth in his chest when she smiles at him might just be it. “But I’m sure you’ll have no time to miss me.”

“I’m sure I’ll find some time,” Clarke tells him with a tight smile. He wonders if she’s allowed to show him any sort of nicety in front of Miss Griffin, but she does just this once. 

He tries his hardest to tear his eyes away from her, but it proves a difficult feat, he’s only distracted when Miss Griffin reaches a hand out to him. She hands him a small pile of gold sovereigns, they’re heavy and shiny, it’s worth more than he’s ever possessed. 

“For your birthday,” Miss Griffin explains, “come and see me on your next birthday, too. It’s going to be awfully lonely around here with the two of you gone.”

Bellamy nods and thanks her. But before he can say anything else, Clarke steps forward and tells him she’ll walk him out. 

The mood is earnest as they walk together, there’s a hundred things Bellamy would quite like to say, but someone can’t quite find the right words to say them. But now he knows that this could be the last time he sees her, and at some point he’ll be but a distant memory to her, the common labouring boy that used to keep her entertained while she bided her time until she becomes a lady. 

“I’ll miss you too,” Clarke assures him, speaking freely now she’s not around Miss Griffin, “and I’ll think of you everyday.”

“I doubt it very much,” Bellamy smiles sadly, the least he can do is smile if this is to be the last time he ever sees her. “You’ll be much too busy in Paris, it’s I who will miss you.”

“Then we’ll agree to miss each other, until we see one another again.”

“Until we see each other again,” he agrees. Briefly, Clarke looks towards the road he walks down to get here. He’ll miss the walk here, looking at all of the beautiful houses until he gets to the most beautifully tragic of them all. He’s learnt to find beauty in it, through the dust and the cracks he’s beginning to picture what it was like before both it and Miss Griffin wasted away. 

Clarke leans forward then, placing a quick, chaste but magical kiss on his lips, then she’s gone, enveloped by the darkness of Satis House, and he thinks that could be the last time he’ll ever see her. 

*

His years are spent with Monty in the Forge, training to become a Blacksmith. While it’s difficult, unforgiving work, he enjoys it more than he ever hoped he would. He enjoys working with Monty, and Harper is always there to greet them after she’s finished her teaching at the school. 

They’re the closest thing to a family he’s got, and he appreciates them endlessly. But every so often, he lets himself think of Clarke and Satis House, he wonders how Clarke is finding Paris, if she loves it there, if it’s as good as he dreams it would be. He wonders if she hates it, if she misses Miss Griffin and Satis House. He wonders if she misses him, but he somehow doubts it. She probably doesn’t even get the time to think of him, let alone miss him. 

He can hope, though. 

On his sixth year of working with Monty, they get a knock on the door of the forge as they’re working. He looks around the place in mild disgust, and he looks at them in even more disgust. 

“I’m looking for a Mr Bellamy Blake,” he announces, he recognises him vaguely, but he can’t quite think of from where.

“That’s me,” Bellamy confirms, nodding at him. The man gives him a once over and sticks his nose up at him. Bellamy figures he’s one of these posh men, probably never done a hard day's work in his life. 

“I require a private consultation, if you don’t mind.”

“We don’t mind,” Bellamy nods at Monty, silently asking for him to come with him. This man looks like a lawyer, and if Bellamy’s in trouble Monty’s the one he wants there with him. Though he couldn't possibly imagine what he could be in trouble for, the only places he goes is work and occasionally to the public house. 

They crowd into the tiny kitchen, sat around the old kitchen table with a pot of tea on the stove. 

The man shakes his hand firmly, taking his hat off. “Mr Jaha, of Jaha Solicitors. I won’t beat around the bush, Mr Blake - I have come with news of a property left to you.”

“A property?” Bellamy frowns, he can’t imagine who could have possibly left anything to him. The only people of relation left to him is Monty is Harper, and they’re both still here, so who could have left anything as grand as a property? “From who?”

“The current owner of the property would like to see you removed from this way of life, to be brought up as a gentleman of great expectations.”

Bellamy’s world freezes for a moment, this can’t possibly be happening to him. As a child he dreamed of it, hoped for it more than anything. But now he’s grown up and he’s abandoned his silly ideals and given in to the fact that he will always be a working man, and he’s proud of that.

But now, these silly notions are becoming a reality, and he doesn’t know what to do, or how to respond. So instead he just stares in disbelief, this must be a mistake, there must be another Bellamy Blake out there, one who has someone to leave a property to him. Mr Jaha hasn’t finished though, he still keeps talking, and Bellamy still can’t take anything in. 

“You must always go by the same Bellamy Blake, and you must not ever know who your benefactor is. If you have any suspicion, you must keep it to yourself. You will go to London, to begin your new life. I have an apartment ready for you there. You will need new clothes, you can’t turn up to London looking like—that.”

Bellamy looks down at his clothes, he’s still in his working wear, but he supposed his regular clothes aren’t much better. Suddenly, what Clarke said to him when they first met rings in his ears again, about how he dresses as a common labourer, how much it hurt back then. It still stings a little to think about now.

An envelope is placed on the table, Mr Jaha nods at Bellamy to pick it up. Bellamy doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much money in his life. 

“For your clothes, and transport to London. I will explain the rest when you get there this coming Thursday.” Mr Jaha hands an envelope to Monty, “reimbursement, for losing your apprentice, I trust it will be enough.”

“More than enough,” Monty blinks in disbelief, Bellamy thinks that maybe this is real, maybe this is meant for him. 

“Then I thank you both for your time, and I will see you on Thursday, Mr Blake. Mr Green, good day.”

The door closes behind him, and Bellamy and Monty are left staring agape in shock. Then finally, Monty laughs, so loud it bounces around the tiny kitchen. 

“You did it, boy,” he laughs, “you finally did it.”

Bellamy’s not sure how, or even why, but he’s finally got his childhood wish.

The people at the Tailors turn their noses up at him when he first walks in, this used to be where his mother worked but those times are long gone. It’s so far away from that shop now it’s unrecognizable. 

They soon change their tune when Bellamy shows them how much money he’s willing to spend there, and suddenly they’re more than enthusiastic to help him. 

He comes out with a pile of new clothing, the ones he was wearing thrown away, the seamstress told him they weren’t worth keeping anymore. The clothes feel alien to Bellamy, but he knows that this is his new life now, wearing fancy clothes and never working labouring jobs again. 

He’s not sure how he feels about that, when he was younger he tried to scrub the calluses off his hands because Clarkes were so soft and unmarked, but he’s grown to be proud of them, he accepted a long time ago that he’s always going to be in this way of life, now he doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

He’s got one more thing to do before he leaves for London. He takes one last walk to Satis House, the road is longer than he remembers, and his new clothes and shoes are uncomfortable, but he supposes that he has to get used to it. 

The house is exactly as he remembers, though. It’s crumbling walls and cracked overgrown garden is unchanging, the clock still stuck at 9:20. He walks through the gates, unlocked now, and he half expects to see Clarke picking daisy petals, waiting for him in the garden. 

But she’s not there, she’s in Paris, becoming a Lady. But he’s going to London to become a gentleman, and for the first time in his life, he might actually have a chance with her.

Miss Griffin is the same room she’s always in, sat in her chair like she always is, staring into the flames vacantly. He stands proudly in front of her, and he never once thought he’d ever get the chance to be in this situation. 

“Bellamy,” Miss Griffin smiles, looking over him, “I hear you’ve been adopted by a rich benefactor, how exciting for you.”

Bellamy tries his hardest not to grin, he stands a little straighter though. “I have. A lawyer from London brought the news yesterday.”

“I heard. I also heard that their identity must be kept a secret.”

Bellamy nods, there’s only one way that Miss Griffin would know that, unless she was the secret benefactor. 

“Yes, miss. That’s what Mr Jaha told me. How is Clarke? Does she enjoy Paris?”

“Clarke is as beautiful as ever,” Miss Griffin smiles, “and admired by everyone she meets. Hopefully someday soon your paths will cross once again.”

Bellamy nods, “I would like that very much. I must go, I have to be in London before nightfall. I just wanted to say thank you, for everything you have done for me.”

“Then I’m sure you will enjoy London. Try not to get swept up in liveliness there, and always keep true to yourself, Bellamy. Always keep your name and your good heart.”

Bellamy leaves for London that afternoon, with his suspicions about who the benefactor is all but confirmed.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for t100fic4blm. I'm taking requests for prompts along with lots of other amazing writer and content creators! For more information, [Check out the carrd here!](https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co)  
> For this prompt, a donation was made to Until Freedon, an intersectional social justice organization rooted in the leadership of diverse people of color to address systemic and racial injustice. You can find out more about their mission [here.](https://untilfreedom.com/)  
> You can find me on [tumblr!](https://excuseyouclarke.tumblr.com/)


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